


Reweaving

by CatalenaMara



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Pseudo-Incest, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-01-27 20:42:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1721930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatalenaMara/pseuds/CatalenaMara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki’s future self comes to warn him that his current path leads to destruction.  But Fate is not an easy thing to change.<br/>Set entirely during the events of the movie “Thor”.<br/>Many thanks to my betas Muriel_Perun and Tenaya.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Seiðr power exploded in his sitting chamber, a wash of green that saturated every atom in its path. Emerald light illuminated everything within the room, draining color from the books shelved three stories high on two walls, highlighting the skulls on his trophy wall so their empty eye sockets glowed with a mockery of their former life. Power whipped tapestries, shuddered the furniture and cracked stone.

Loki leapt to his feet, hands conjuring wards against sorcery, the ancient tome he had been reading dropped and fallen to pieces on the floor. He circled, seeking the enemy out in every corner of his chamber, alert to all things visible and invisible.

Something slunk from a shadow. _How had it crossed all his Wards?_ His hands sparked green with the charge of his own seiðr, eager for its target.

Something flitted from shadow to shadow. He turned, turned again, as it moved almost as fast as sight.

_What is this? Who sent this? How to combat it?_

Nothing. Nothing. Then—

A scarred face materialized an inch from his own. He leaped back, heart hammering in his chest. A blast of icy cold laid frigid fingers on his body, shaking his bones. He stared directly into the eyes of madness.

His eyes.

Green eyes fever-bright with flares of grief and desperation and madness.

His face, and yet not. Older – by what? Centuries? Millennia? His face, starved and scarred beyond healing, looming like a fanged monster about to strike.

_Illusion! Which enemy is this? So much power – how to defend? How to attack?_

He called Words to ward off this lying demon wearing his own face

Seiðr spat like a green aura around the outlines of its form as it laughed and spoke: “You know who I am.”

His voice, as well, but rough and damaged.

“I know who you _pretend_ to be.” He spoke the words of a Binding spell.

The demon grinned and struck an insouciant pose, his leather and armored garments shifting fluidly around him, his long wild tangled hair, nearly waist-length, absorbing all light. “Newly learned, and your pronunciation is off.”

Loki burned with humiliation and tried again. Green light hit an invisible barrier and rebounded, knocking him to the floor.

He was on his knees and then his feet in an instant, ready to try again. “What do you want?” he demanded, hiding his growing fear with anger.

The demon ignored him and began wandering around Loki’s chambers. He stopped before the trophy wall, studying the display of the skulls and antlers and horns and crests of the most powerful beasts he had slain, Thor’s company a constant in all those journeys. The demon rested a careful finger on a horned dragon’s crest, one of the more fearsome beasts he and Thor had ever taken in the hunt. The demon smirked and repeated, “You know I am you.”

“Liar!” he said and the Mad One howled with laughter. He caressed the dragon skull with one fingertip. “A momentous night, as I recall.” He was no longer smirking. Instead, a soft smile briefly settled on scarred lips, and then was gone.

Loki froze. That night, fresh from the hunt, he and Thor had touched each other for the first time in lust. The first time. Though hardly the last.

The Mad One was fingering his books. “Ah,” he said and pulled one off a shelf. He materialized a pen from nowhere. He wrote quickly in the margins, then looked over the book at him and gave him a thin slash of a smile. He slammed the book closed against a table, and was suddenly there, pressed against him, baring his teeth in a demonic sneer.

Loki did not move, overcoming the urge to flee. “And why should I believe you? You could be any enemy seeking to deceive me.”

A ferocious grin lit his counterpart’s face. “We both know about deceit, Lie-Smith! I, at least, know the truth.”

He leapt back several feet and flung a knife directly at the Mad One’s throat. But the Mad One was already gesturing, and the knife sailed harmlessly wide then vanished in a shower of green sparks.

Strong, scarred, icy-cold fingers seized him by the throat. He choked; then his back was shoved against the nearest wall, knocking his breath out of him. He gasped, shivering in the suddenly chill air. A loud crack sounded sharply behind him.

The Mad One’s hands forced his wrists above his head, pinning them against the wall, capturing his magic. “I have unwoven many things to come here to give you the thread to weave again. Listen to me now, for everything you desire depends on it. I thought myself misused, taunted, insulted, not seen, filled with skills that none valued or cared to use, spoken of with contempt when I saved their lives. And then,” the mad gaze went distant, unfocused. “I wove a tale of insanity and destruction and death, and I am my final victim. I would fain pick the weave apart and make it anew.”

The Mad One released his wrists and stepped back an inch. Loki lowered his arms and pressed his hands against the cold cold stone, torn between disbelief and horror, never once taking his gaze from the thing standing so close its icy breath caressed his face.

“I will tell you these things. Your skin is not your own. Make claim to it, and all that you are. Whatever plans have been made for you, set them aside and make your own, but choose against mindless immediate vengeance. That will lead you to your destruction.”

Loki tensed, full of questions demanding answers. The Mad One set his cold hands against his shoulders and pushed, holding him in place against the wall. “Remember this: Thor does not lie. That is why I did not believe him. Thor does not lie. Thor did not abandon me, nor did his loyalty nor his love falter until I destroyed it. He is constant. Remember that, even if you forget all else.”

The Mad One tilted his head and whispered directly into Loki’s ear. “Paths fork ahead of you. Choose well, and find your own path through chaos, even if it is unapparent to other eyes. Do not destroy foolishly. Chaos creates from what it destroys, but if you burn everything nothing survives.”

The Mad One stepped away and grinned. “Succeed. Or fail. I give you this burden, the gift of my failure.”

“Tell me more!” Loki demanded. “What must I do? What must I leave undone?”

The Mad One snarled. “If it were easy to remake the tapestry then I would tell you all. Know this one last thing: the Weave struggles to retain its original form. Do not think any of this will be simple.”

His chambers shuddered and his other self drained away, substance first, then color, finally light.

Loki fell to his knees as the backwash of power snapped around him and vanished entirely.

Shaking, gasping for air, he staggered to his feet, calling his own power – a puny thing now – to reset and strengthen the wards in his room. He turned –

And stopped in shock at the sight of the wall his back had just been pressed against.

Cracks marred the stone, floor to the high ceiling three stories above, and each crack was filled with ice.

He raised a tentative hand – paused an instant before he touched one of the cracks, the chill already claiming his skin, a blue tinge washing his fingertips.

He snatched his hand back. Heart racing, he examined his fingertips. But there was no trace of blue on the skin of his fingertips. Had he even seen what he thought he’d seen?

He whirled – and saw shards of ice marking every footstep the Mad One had taken. Ice that melted, faded, vanished. He passed a hand through the air, commanding that all things sentient and invisible show themselves, but there was nothing left to reveal itself.

He focused on the book The Mad One had slammed to a table. He grabbed it, leafing rapidly through the pages, hands shaking.

Finally he found the page the Mad One had written on and examined the runes. A series of numbers. Coordinates, yes. Coordinates like those he made use of to travel the hidden pathways along Yggdrasil’s branches. But these coordinates he did not recognize, had never taken.

He contemplated the numbers. Midgard, yes. But why there, that backwater? He hadn’t been there in centuries. There was nothing of any interest on Midgard.

He slid the book shut, then thought to wonder, why this tome? It was a tedious chronicle of long-ago wars with Jötunheim, filled with endless descriptions of bloody battles and the valorous warriors who took part in them, all done long before he was born. Thor would love it, if he ever took the time to read anything at all. There must be a meaning to the Mad One’s choice of this book.

It would, it was certain, become plain once he gave it further thought. In all the tales, Fate was given to cryptic pronouncements, but the answers were there to be found. He was certain of it.

He took a deep breath and picked up the scattered pages of the book he’d dropped to the floor, placing them on his writing desk.

His mind seized on every word, every phrase The Mad One had uttered, his thoughts prowling and spinning and circling and turning upon themselves.

_What did he mean about my skin? Why come here and tell me nothing useful? Thor never lies – why would I believe he lies? If Thor thinks it, he speaks it. Thor is as constant as sunrise. What did he mean about forking paths? What is the path I should take?_

Fear fizzing in his brain, energy galvanizing his skin, he paced and thought and could not rid himself of the image that demons were pursuing him.

“By the Norns,” he whispered. _Why is prophecy always so cryptic? Were the Norns laughing at him, even while they tended the roots of Yggdrasil, even as they wove?_ _Laughing at_ _Loki, always the one never content with simple tales and unquestioned tradition, always the one seeking the answers to questions no one else asked._

He suddenly smiled, a thin slash across his face. When had he found unknown paths things to be feared instead of welcomed?

“Midgard, then,” he whispered, and drew diagrams in the air to open the walkways between worlds.

* * * * *

“Brother! You missed a valiant tourney!” Thor strode into Loki’s chambers without bothering to announce himself, making everything seem much smaller by his presence. Loki ignored him, kept his attention on the book he was studying, trying to avoid looking up at his brother who seemed to be breathing all the air in the room. He reread a line, thoughts circling like a snarl of snakes tangling and biting and devouring their own tails. _What did it all mean? What was he meant to do? Why was he not able to understand?_

“And we missed you at the feasting! You spend overmuch time alone.” Thor circled behind him and hands came down over Loki’s shoulders. How many times had he sworn he would add wards to his room preventing Thor’s unauthorized entrance? He used them to keep everyone else out. And yet he never had.

Thor massaged his neck. Loki huffed in exasperation, then sighed and leaned back into the warmth, enjoying momentarily the spread of comfort through his body before pulling away. He groaned and glared balefully at his vast library. He had spent every minute since his return from Midgard hunched over his vast book-cluttered table, bespelling his library to bring those volumes he most needed to the fore, reading everything he could about destiny and how to avoid it. The legends, however, were filled with dire tales of those who attempted to cheat fate, and no legends told a tale quite like the one he had experienced the day before.

“Was there a difference between this and any other tourney I have ever witnessed over the past centuries?” he commented drily.

“None at all.” Thor laughed, and added, “Brother, I have brought you a repast.”

Two servants stood at the chamber door bearing heavily laden trays. Loki wordlessly gestured and his wards allowed the servants to enter, bow respectfully, and take the food to the stone table on the balcony outside his chambers. The smell of roast boar, savory soups, flatbread and stewed fruits wafted through the air.   The servants laid out the meal, returned inside, and bowed before departing.

Thor had completely destroyed his concentration, he thought, irritated. Well, he _was_ hungry. Walking the branches of Yggdrasil was difficult and required much energy.

He had gone to Midgard as its star was dawning on that portion of that world. He had found himself in a barren wasteland, the land very different from those portions of Midgard he had visited before. This land was separated from the lands he knew best by half the world’s width. Here, the land had been small rolling hills, dotted with only sparse scrubby plants, with unfamiliar mountains in the further distance, and the air had been quite warm.

There had been a Midgardian village close by. He had walked, invisible, among the mortals, but saw nothing of interest among their meager dwellings and peasant activities. They had made some improvements in their technologies since the last time he had walked on Midgard; they had harnessed the power of lightning and had created metal vehicles to travel in, but otherwise the mortals seemed much the same as they always had been. He inspected every building, and found nothing of interest in the dwellings, the stables for their metal vehicles, the eating establishments, the drinking halls, except for the oddity of one place dealing in the sales of small live animals which did not seem meant for the table. He found nothing to indicate why the Mad One had felt it necessary for him to journey here.

As he had walked back out into the lifeless landscape surrounding the village, ready to travel back to Asgard, a strange, doglike creature, filled with seiðr, had set its yellow eyes on him, seeing him despite the spell that made him invisible to all inhabitants of this world. He stopped, motionless, and met its gaze, his every sense alert. This being must be why he was here.

It had made no move toward him and had not broken silence as they stared at each other.

“Do you have anything to tell me?” Loki had asked eagerly, impatient for answers to all the questions that crowded his mind.

The creature’s eyes were unblinking. He got an impression of amusement, and then a strong message that whatever business had brought him here was none of its concern. It was rooted here, he saw; a Midgardian spirit of some kind, belonging to this land. And yet… he had sensed a type of kinship; a similarity to himself he did not understand.

It had vanished seconds later. His mind was filled with even more questions as he took the pathways back to Asgard. Had he missed something important? Had he asked the wrong question? Had the animal spirit been meant to tell him what he was supposed to know or do there? What had he done wrong?

Or, as a Midgard spirit, was it merely a sentinel, and nothing to do with him?

He knew so little of Midgard, and none of this portion of that world. He reviewed every detail of the unsettling encounter again. He hated feeling this uncertain of his own understanding. He–

“Father,” Thor stated, “is a fool.”

Startled, Loki brought himself out of his reverie. He took another bite of boar, enjoying the salty taste. It was seasoned just the way he liked it, and he was certain Thor had requested it be prepared that way for him. Thor was seated opposite him, drinking another goblet of mead. Thor had been babbling on about the tourney for some moments now, but the sudden change of subject had caught Loki’s attention.

Loki raised his brows. “What revelation is this, brother?”

Thor’s countenance was the image of the storms he controlled. The sky darkened. Loki raised an ironic brow.

Thor gave him a rueful smile and the clouds began to disperse.

“Father has become overly cautious,” Thor went on. “There are rumors of war everywhere; the realm is not safe. It is good he is stepping down now. When he became King he was ready for battle. His glorious victories! He defeated the Frost Giants and the Fire Giants, the curs that they are. All realms respected his might and power. All realms bowed to Asgard. But now – there are those who claim we have become weak, that we do not deserve respect.”

“Thor,” he said, with a hint of impatience, “There have been nothing but minor skirmishes, brigands and pirates, easily put down.” And taking far too much of his time, he thought.

“An ember is the sign of fire,” Thor said, quoting a common cliché.

Loki resisted rolling his eyes. “And what would you do in his stead, brother? Your upcoming coronation has obviously filled your head with plans.”

“Well,” Thor said, and expounded on his plans for blood and glorious battles and death and mastering all who opposed Asgard’s might.

Blood. Death. The walls of his chamber dissolved from his sight and he saw it now as he had pictured this scene countless times over the centuries: a vast battlefield, and Thor’s body, ripped and torn and shredded and lifeless with his life’s blood flooding the ground beside him while the ravens wheeled above and screamed in mourning.

Loki forced his imaginings away. Thor was talking about insults hurled at Asgard from the Muspelheim Giants, and Loki suddenly understood he must destroy Thor’s plans. Still shuddering at his thoughts of Thor’s death he suddenly realized he wanted nothing more than the comfort of Thor’s body. Wanted to cling to that strength, cage it forever, and never, ever let go. Wanted his brother with him, always, hale and whole, looking at him with the regard he shared with no one else.

_Thor did not abandon me, nor did his loyalty nor his love falter until I destroyed it._

He dug his nails into his palms. What did it **_mean_**? What did he **_do_** to cause so much damage?

Thor stopped expounding and took another long draught of mead.

He would keep Thor here, with him. He would undo what he had done. That fate which would lead to the Mad One’s insanity would _never_ happen. He would never allow it to happen.

“Thor,” Loki said, “that is all very well, but I have other sport in mind now. Shall we to my bedchamber?”

Thor’s face lit up. Loki smiled a small triumphant smile. Thor was always trying to talk him into bedsport, and usually succeeded, but there were times when nothing could distract him from his books and spells, not even the wicked prospect of Thor’s hands and mouth on him, the dark pleasures he had from having Thor’s cock deep inside him.

Tonight was not that night. Tonight, he suddenly wanted to thrust away the useless knots of his thoughts and feel Thor’s hands scoring his skin, feel that hard cock ravaging his body.

They were on their feet and through the opening into his main chamber in seconds. Thor stopped just inside, where they were shielded from all eyes, and pulled Loki to him, mouth descending to his willing lips. Loki wrapped his arms around Thor, pulled back an instant and whispered, “So eager, brother! Is it to be the floor, then?”

Loki liked to magic off their garments, but Thor preferred a more primal approach and started ripping at Loki’s clothing. Then, suddenly, he stopped, his attention caught by something over Loki’s shoulder.

“What?” Loki demanded and followed Thor’s gaze.

Thor pointed to the cracks marring the height of Loki’s entry wall. “Brother, what happened there?”

Loki, hard already, scowled at the interruption, unwilling to harbor those thoughts, not at this moment. “Nothing.”

“That does not look like ‘nothing’ to me,” Thor growled.

“A spell gone wrong, that is all.” He took advantage of Thor’s inattention and magicked their clothing away, then ran his hands down Thor’s torso, stopping to thumb nipples and trace the carved musculature with his long fingers.

Thor pushed him away and held him at arm’s length. “Brother. Be careful. What you do is dangerous.”

Loki sighed. “I say the same to you in all your battles, Thor, but you heed me not.”

He wrapped his arms around Thor and crushed him close, reveling in the feel and scent of Thor’s big body, sharp teeth already nipping at Thor’s neck, his shoulder. Thor put his mouth to Loki’s neck, set teeth there, set fire flickering along his skin. The strong throb of Thor’s cock against his made him hiss with pleasure.

_Mine!_ His mind sang as he marked Thor’s shoulder again with his teeth and ran his hands down Thor’s sides, scratching with his nails. _I’ll never let you go._

He grabbed Thor’s hand and half-pulled him toward his bedchamber, certain that Thor would forget all about the damage to the wall, if he hadn’t already. He turned suddenly at the entrance to his chambers, claiming Thor’s mouth, and wound his arms around Thor’s back. He quickly gestured to cast an illusion to conceal the damage to his wall so there would be no trace of it left to remind Thor of its existence once he was ready to depart his chambers. Just as quickly, he added that spell to his wards so no one but himself would ever see it again.

Then he turned inside Thor’s arms, broke away and half-ran into his bedchamber. He glanced over his shoulder as he darted around the lounging couch placed before his enormous fireplace. Thor, laughing, made as to make after him and he raced to his bed, large enough to hold three men the size of Thor, dived in, and caused the rich gold-and-green hangings to curtain the bed completely. He conjured a witchlight for illumination, lounged back against his multi-colored pillows and waited for Thor to work out where he had concealed the entrance this time.

It didn’t take long before Thor poked his head through the draperies near the far side of his bed, gave a pleased growl, and leapt in. He was on him instantly and they were rolling together, their hands everywhere, Loki laughing, skin alive to Thor’s touch as Thor’s rough calloused hands scraped against his skin. Thor pinned him down and turned his head sideways, kissing and nibbling the length of Loki’s long neck, and Loki’s cock hardened even further.

He put both hands against Thor’s shoulders, pushed as he twisted, and Thor fell, laughing, onto his side. Loki moved quickly, pushing Thor onto his back, then rose to his knees. Thor’s lust-filled eyes searched his, his thick cock jutting into the air.

Loki straddled him, lowering himself, skin to skin. Thor moaned as Loki grasped him in one hand, long fingers circling the shaft, gently easing the foreskin down, exposing the head, which was already wet and flushed a dark red. He matched Thor’s cock to his own, dragging them together, gasping a little as bright pleasure lit his mind. He fell forward onto his elbows, black hair curtaining his face, breathing Thor’s name as they slid and rubbed their erect cocks against each other. Lifting one hand, he explored the hard nub of a nipple, loving the way Thor’s body jerked and dragged against his. He traced the ridge of collarbone with a thumb, then bent forward, biting Thor’s shoulder again, then licked his neck.

Thor grabbed his arms, digging in strong fingers, and Loki groaned in pleasure, picturing the bruises already forming. He rubbed his face against the beard scratch of Thor’s jaw. Tangling strands of black and gold hair together, he found Thor’s mouth and dragged his tongue across Thor’s lips. Thor’s mouth opened and their teeth clashed together, then Thor opened fully to him, allowing him this penetration at least. One of Thor’s hands was tight against his neck now, the other sliding down the length of his back and he shivered in anticipation.

Loki ran his hands through Thor’s golden hair, wrapped strands around his fingers and pulled tight as he delved his tongue inside Thor’s mouth. He explored teeth and tongue, humming a bit, enjoying the vibration as their hips rutted against each other. Thor was damp with sweat, and his electric blue eyes were fastened on Loki’s as if nothing else existed anywhere.

Thor’s hands were all over him, exploring the length of his back, the curve of his ass. One finger played against his opening, reached further, caressed the underside of his balls. His breath hitched and he rocked back, staring down into Thor’s lust-filled eyes.

He shifted back, further, further, dragging his heavy cock reluctantly away from Thor’s hard warm skin and kneeled back on the bed, erection thrusting into air. Thor had stilled and was watching him closely as he rested one hand on one of Thor’s thighs, ran his fingertips gently against Thor’s balls, then tugged.

Thor groaned and his entire body shuddered. Loki reached lower, and pressed his fingertips against the opening to Thor’s body. Thor’s eyes snapped open. He sat up and yanked Loki’s hand away, denying him, as always, his dark forbidden desire. Loki always tried for this favor. He always failed, and the failure always sent a lick of anger through his veins. Thor would never allow this. Because Thor, of course, was not ergi.  Not like him, who had always desired what a man should not desire.

Thor was suddenly on his knees. His hands shifted to shove against Loki’s shoulders, forcing him back against the bed. Thor grinned down into his face, moved to grab both of Loki’s wrists and forced them above his head. He used his teeth against Loki’s neck, and rubbed the lengths of their cocks together.

Loki magicked himself away and Thor fell against the bed. Thor reared up, electricity crawling on his skin. Loki appeared behind him, encircled him with his arms and pressed his body to Thor’s heavily muscled back, trapping his cock against heated skin. He placed his chin on one broad shoulder and whispered into his ear, “Shall you breach me now? If you wish it, lie down on your back and I will do it for you.”

Thor whipped around, pupils blown wide. Loki gave him a filthy smile and magicked oil onto his fingers. Before Thor could react, Loki reached beneath himself and thrust two, then three fingers inside his own body, preparing himself in haste. Bracing his hands against Thor’s shoulders, he shoved him back against the bed. He straddled him again, and grasped and aimed Thor’s cock, centering it against his opening. Pushed down. He sucked in breath at the blunt invasion and kept moving. He took Thor’s cock inside him, inch by inch, loving the burn, loving the sheer size of it filling him. He pushed all the way down as Thor thrust up with a groan torn from deep inside his body, his hips jerking until their bodies met. He cried out in triumph as he seated himself and reveled in the feeling of possessing Thor so completely within his own body.

Thor thrust, thrust again, and Loki rode him, his mind chanting, _Mine! I will change it all; I will defeat Fate. I will never destroy your love for me!_ He thrust forward against Thor’s chiseled chest, then rocked back into the hardness filling him, finding his rhythm. Thor grabbed his cock, fisting it.

Electricity crackled against his skin from Thor’s touch and he keened with the desperate pleasure of it, up, down, again, again, fire shooting along his nerves with every movement. He knew exactly how to angle each downward shove against Thor’s cock to jolt sparks of ecstasy inside him. Thor stroked him in match to his rhythm, his rough calloused fingers like lightning against his cock. Thor rolled his head, golden hair spread in a wet sweaty tangle against the pillow and muttered incoherent words of lust and love. Loki bent forward and stopped the sounds with his mouth, closed Thor’s mouth with his own, then tilted back as Thor roared with pleasure and erupted inside him, and he was spilling too, body clenching spasmodically, Thor pulling out the last of his ecstasy with final strokes of his hand.

He shuddered and collapsed against Thor, joining him skin to skin, sweat to sweat and his own spill. Loki licked a bite mark he’d made on Thor’s neck, nuzzling while Thor made soft sounds in reply.

Long moments later he rolled free, lying on his back by Thor’s side. He lay still, enjoying the delicious lassitude, savoring the ache inside him, the feel of each bite mark, each small hurt fading and healing within moments. He stared into the star and nebula-filled darkness beyond his balcony. Thor had fallen deeply asleep, and was taking up far more of the bed than seemed possible. As usual. He discovered Thor’s fingers lying slack against the sheets, and interlaced his own fingers with them. Pressed tight.

Loki smiled into the darkness. The plan was forming in his mind. Thor was not ready to be king; that much was certain. Their father was the wiser, choosing the longer game, the greater objective. If Thor became king now, he would attempt to smash everything with his hammer, and they would be in for another thousand years of tedious bloodshed, much hacking and slashing with swords and axes, too many warriors boasting at drunken feasts of their prowess, and too many boring poems and sagas all reciting the same stories of glorious valor.

Too many dying, and where was the fun in that?

Thor dying, and the thought filled him with horror. Oh yes, the Valkyries would escort many heroes to Valhalla, and should Thor fall in battle he would be at their head.

But he, Loki, who many called ergi, many called níðingr,would never be among their number. He would never go to Valhalla.

Better to live a long life, and enjoy its fruits, and learn as many secrets as could be found out. Better to live. Better to have Thor live and be with him as long as possible.

_I wove a tale of insanity and destruction and death, and I am my final victim._

_I will never be that Mad Thing!_ he swore into the darkness. How could he ever have met such a horrific fate? With this warning he _would_ change his destiny; he would _never_ become that vile hideous insane _beast._

_Choose well,_ the Mad One had said, and oh yes, he would do that. He was seeing more and more details of his plan.

_Find your own path through chaos, even if it is unapparent to other eyes. Do not destroy foolishly._

Yes. His plan would work. It had to. Thor was planning chaos, and not the kind Loki enjoyed. Thor was planning to destroy foolishly.

This must be why the Mad One had chosen the book he had. That must have been why the Mad One had filled the cracks in the wall with ice so chill that Loki’s fingertips had turned blue when he had reached out to touch it.

It was to remind him he knew paths to Jötunheim. It was to direct him to the correct course.

As for the curious quest to Midgard – well, he could not yet see how that backwater played a role in this game. It would at some point, he was sure, but that would be many threads down the weave. He would be ready.

He contemplated journeying to Jötunheim. It would be dangerous. It would be exciting!

And if it all worked at as planned – and there was no reason why it shouldn’t – why, what better time to create mischief than when all of Asgard was there to fall into hubbub and discord? It was delightful to imagine the reaction of the full court when Thor failed to become king.

And then they would have many more centuries together before Odin decided Thor was truly worthy. Many more centuries of adventures. Many more centuries – he smiled fondly at Thor, pressed up against his side, and reached a hand to stroke the long blond hair – of frantic fucking, and long slow fucking, and lying side by side, here, or under the stars, while Loki told tales half false, half true, and Thor, who could never tell the difference, would laugh or murmur sorrow at tales of folk who existed still, or never would be. Many more times of lying in Thor’s arms, with Thor focused on him alone, enjoying those small fragments of time in which he understood what it was to be content, to be cherished, to not think at all.

_You will not die in some useless, vainglorious battle,_ he promised Thor. _You will live. And I will never doubt you. I will change the course of fate. I will never be that mad thing._

And all he had to do to accomplish that was ruin Thor’s coronation.

His smile spread into a grin. It was going to be so much fun!

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re the warning for "self-harm": That occurs within the first paragraphs of this chapter.

Loki paced like a beast in a cage, his chambers at once too big and too small to contain him. He did not fit – not here, not anywhere.

He wore nothing, had stripped himself bare, certain his skin was lying to him. He stared down at his white arms, a sob escaping his lips, and then suddenly he was raking at his bespelled skin, nails sharp like claws, ripping and ripping and the red blood flowed in rivulets over the Asgardian pale. Gasping for breath he fell to his knees and clawed and flayed at his arms, his chest, his thighs, until the blood came in streams and washed his skin completely with red.

Some infinite time later, still on his knees, he looked down at the ruin of his arms, still dripping blood, still demanding the truth of his Jötunn skin beneath the Æsir glamour, but the source of the spell encasing him remained inaccessible to his power.

How had he not known? _How had he not known he’d been imprisoned in another skin his entire life? **How had he not known?**_

_Your skin is not your own._

The horror – _monster!_ – living inside him all along!

The humiliation – he, the Lie-Smith, deceived by the biggest lie of all.

Waves of seiðr crawled across his arms, crackled across his fingers. Heart racing, faster and faster, he whirled about, seeking threats in every corner of his chambers, finding only shadows. _But what lived in those shadows?_ If the Mad One were here, right now, he’d rip the answers from him.

He paced. Paced. Stared at the cracks which marred his wall floor to ceiling, cracks that had been filled with ice at the Mad One’s touch. Cracks only he could see now. Dragged in breath while his pulse pounded in his ears and magic crackled around him like whips in the air.

What would it be like to confront the monster king – the _father! –_ who left him to die? To confront the one who had deemed him unworthy of even being a monster. What would it be like to shatter him, destroy him completely? Oh, Laufey deserved something **_special_** _._

What would it be like, to command Thor’s lightning, to burn everything to the ground, to open to the door to ALL the demons, fire and frost alike?

His gaze lit upon the heavy exquisitely carved wooden chestplaced beneath his finest hunting tapestry. The chest itself contained childish things, antlers of young elk and infant bilgesnipe, slain on his earliest hunting trips, riding through mountains and plains and wild forests with Thor, his not-brother, and Odin, his not-father. Those nights, resting by campfires, feasting on their slain prey, while their father ( ** _not_** his father) told tales of all the monsters the realms contained, of the monster-kings Laufey and Surtur and the demons they commanded, all voraciously hungry to destroy Asgard and all who dwelt therein. Trophies which had occupied pride of place on the walls of his chambers until replaced, like all childish things, with the trophies of manhood.

And then he had packed them away and forgotten them, though each held a thousand memories.

Odin himself had carved the chest, filling its entire surface with images of tales of valor and heroism, wars fought and won. Demons of ice and fire slain, destroyed.

_The monsters he had been warned about in all those tales told to him in childhood!_

_When, Odin, did you plan to tell me I was one of **them**? When were you going to tell me that everything I knew about myself was a **lie**?_

The power filling him was immense, uncontainable. He thrust an arm toward the chest and it exploded, and all the fragments caught fire and flared in crazed patterns until they dissolved into ash, and then dust, and then nothing.

He paced. Blood followed in trails behind him. He paced and his thoughts raged and circled and tore until he finally collapsed and screamed into the night.

* * * * *

The sky had traded darkness for light. When had it become day? He stood slowly, ignoring pain, ignoring his already-healing wounds.

“Loki!”

Frigga was at his chamber’s door. She gasped at the sight of his wounds and the dried blood masking his skin.

He said nothing. He magicked his court armor back on as she slid through his wards and ran to him. He stood motionless, and permitted her to throw her arms around him, to hold him tight, to nestle her head against his neck.

He did not move, barely breathed.

A moment only and she stepped back. His arms ached from where he had not held her.

Her eyes were overbright. “My son…” She paused, blinked, and stroked his hair. He wanted to lean into her touch. Did not. She withdrew her hand. “My King, your councilors await you.”

He inclined his head. The words sparked strangeness in his mind. King? His Councilors?

_Oh, yes. Thor’s actions on_ _Jötun_ _heim, it seemed, had had **many** consequences. _

It hurt to walk, some wounds yet unhealed, yet walk he did, over to the table where his books still lay in disarray, to where he had placed Gungnir some time the previous night.

When they had first brought him Gungnir, as he had waited by the foot of Odin’s bed, when he had taken it into his hands, Huginn and Muninn had cawed and flapped and turned their eyes from him. The staff had vibrated in his hands. There had been a dissonance, then a considering silence, then acceptance, and Gungnir had matched its vibration to his own, matching his pulse, allowing his ownership. The ravens had continued to caw, but he had dismissed them from his mind. They were nothing. Gungnir was _his._

Now his hands curled, knowing Gungnir’s power. He picked it up and Gungnir’s song spilled through him. It thrummed in his veins, its pulse mirroring his heart.

He looked back at Frigga. She was watching him with pride.

_My King._

He strode through the halls of the palace, and all he met gave him deference. When he arrived in the chamber where the Councilors met to inform and advise the All-Father, they were waiting for his arrival. They all fell to one knee, their hands against their hearts, their motions properly timed to the second, in perfect form as if they were bowing to the All-Father himself. Their gaze upon him, however, was measured and assessing and uncertain. There were hints of mistrust and suspicion flickering in the backs of some of their eyes, and Loki knew it had nothing to do with the fact he was the youngest man, by far, among those present. Thor’s age had mattered not when Odin had chosen him for the succession.

Alrekr and Kjallak, the youngest among them, though centuries older than Loki himself, were not successful in hiding their malice. Resentment and anger flamed in their eyes. They had long spoken evil of him, and he had retaliated, and though they knew it not yet, neither of them would ever sire sons.

Worms of anger and spite curled in him. He could have his revenge now against every one of them who had ever slandered him, called him ergi, called him níðingr, called him seiðmaðr, called him every filthy thing, damned him for his very nature.

He sat in Odin’s chair, an elaborately carved massive thing. Great tapestries hung from the walls depicting Odin’s greatest triumphs, woven by Frigga’s own hands. His eyes strayed to the tapestry depicting the final battle on Jötunheim; Odin’s crushing of the Jötnar, his theft of the Casket of Ancient Winters, the source of their power, leaving their world to slowly die. The tapestry had left the final detail out. The weave did not record the moment after the All-Father had crushed the enemy, when he had lingered one minute more, to take up what Laufey had discarded as useless, worthless, fit only for the midden.

“My King.” Ragnfast, the eldest among them, spoke, his words hitched slightly, not as smooth as they should have been.

Loki replied with a thin smile, fingers tightening on Gungnir. He nodded.

“We have received King Laufey’s demands.”

“And what,” Loki leaned forward, “does the Jötunn want?”

“He wants the Casket of Ancient Winters returned immediately. He demands the death of a dozen Æsir warriors for every slain Jötunn. And, he wants Thor’s head.”

The room erupted in shouts. Predictably, they seemed most incensed by the demand for Thor’s head – “Not in a thousand – ten thousand years – will they have our glorious prince’s head!” was a typical comment. What would their reaction be, he wondered, if they had demanded **_his_** head.

He brought Gungnir down against the floor and the room fell instantly silent. A dozen pairs of eyes watched for his reaction. He felt as if all the ice of Jötunheim had settled in his bones. “He will receive none of that.”

“What then, my King?”

“Why, that is why you are advisors. Advise.” He leaned back in the All-Father’s chair and kept his face carefully blank.

“We need to kill them all, this time. Every single one.” This was Kellskeggr ** _,_** one of the eldest men on the council, hair and beard now gone completely white. He had been old when Bor had reigned, and was now nearing the end of his long life. It was certain he was too old to see combat himself. “Else, they remain an enemy at our backs, ready to slice our throats.”

Tyr, the All-Father’s general, said, “The All-Father intended to negotiate a peace. He wanted to avoid another war.”

“The All-Father had not been insulted by Laufey’s demands! Surely he would be leading us into battle even now!” Alrekr, his short red-gold beard bristling, spat out, “The Jötnar are unworthy scum! Filthy and treacherous and vile!”

And then they were all talking at once, detailing Jötnar atrocities, describing planned vengeance, reveling in their hoped-for bloodbath, already counting themselves valorous and victors while imagining the icy ground of Jötunheim drenched with the blood of their defeated foes, slippery under their feet. Their voices clashed and clanged while Loki sat on the All-Father’s chair, and with every word they spoke his skin got colder, and his heart began beating too hard and too fast as everyone speaking agreed: the Jötnar all needed to die.

Hrodi had stopped speaking and was staring at him. He felt as if ice had settled into his bones and darted a glance to his hands, expecting them to have suddenly turned blue.

But no, they were as they always had been. Loki kept his left hand clutched on Gungnir, but relaxed his right hand’s fingers from where they were gripping the carving of a stag which adorned the arm of the chair.

“It is said that they have developed a new weapon in secrecy, one far more powerful than the Casket of Ancient Winters!” Alrekr was continuing his rant. “And it is said they have left their world a ruin so as to deceive us and their weaponry is hidden underground! They are cowards and would kill us as they killed those on Midgard, with deceit and trickery!” He stopped abruptly and swallowed under the weight of Loki’s gaze.

He imagined himself turning Jötunn before them. Imagined their every suspicion of him proved instantly.

Not Thor. Not Æsir. Not worthy. Never worthy.

The enemy. Sitting on their throne.

They would tear him to pieces, and even his seiðr would not save him against their numbers.

He stilled the shudder that claimed his flesh and favored Alrekr with a smile that stretched his lips but never neared his eyes.

Kjallak shouted, “My King, we deserve valorous battle! Songs will be sung of our prowess for millennia, and those happiest of all of us will be welcomed into Valhalla!”

Tyr had been watching in silence. He now stood, and all fell silent. “My King,” he said, “Heimdall has provided us with maps of their fortifications, their armories, their supply-houses. Perhaps the rumors are true and they are developing new weapons in secrecy, but Heimdall has seen none of it, nor did the All-Father count these tales as fact.”

Loki closed his eyes for a brief instant as a shudder rippled through his skin. _Choose well, and find your own path through chaos, even if it is unapparent to other eyes. Do not destroy foolishly._

“Send Laufey-King an envoy,” Loki said. “This is my reply. I offer them truce and no concessions. If they declare peace now, we will not enforce war upon their realm.” _Let the bargaining begin._

Furious, mutinous eyes glared at him. “My King!” Ragnfast began.

Loki stood and slammed Gungnir to the floor and as the hall shook they fell into sudden silence. “It is done!” he said, and strode out, wishing them all dead.

* * * * *

He sat by Odin’s bedside, alone except for Huginn and Muninn, who were perched on the bedposts, never taking their eyes from him.

“Liar,” he growled near-silently to his not-father, lying motionless as a corpse beneath his furs and the glowing spell containing him. “I must raise my ambitions! I’ve never thought of lies that vast! That I am son! That I am Æsir! That I am born to be a king! You are an inspiration, All-Father. Shall I lie to you now? Find some great lie to tell you? That your kingdom lies in ruins and all despise your name?”

The ravens shrieked and he looked up at them. Their eyes promised him destruction; their claws clutching tightly to the posts rather than slice into his flesh; their beaks opening wide to sound promises to peck his eyes out.

He sucked in breath. Rage threatened to burst his skin. His thoughts yanked and tangled in a claustrophobic mess. He picked at the knotted skein, struggled to make sense of it, struggled to untie it.

There. Several threads gleamed as they ran out from the knot straight and true, disappearing into infinity.

He leaned over Odin’s sleeping body. And thought,

_Why don’t I just kill you as you sleep?_

And,

_What can I do to make you proud?_

And,

_Why don’t you sleep forever?_

And,

_What can I do to be your true son?_

There was one last thread. It reached further than all the rest. He sat back. Contemplated it, following it as it led all the way to Jötunheim.

His fist tightened around Gungnir’s shaft.

The ravens cawed loudly and flapped their wings.

He snarled at them and fell into magpie form. He took to the air and flew directly at Huginn, wheeling off at the last second to dart at Muninn and then away again. They flapped and screamed but dared not attack. They clung to their perches as he slipped through the currents of air to the outside, leaving them behind.

Frigga was on the balcony, where she had taken her place at her loom.

Seeing and craving the bright colors he saw, he rode the air down. He settled on a low wall and folded his wings, listening to the sound her loom made with each pass _,_ seeing the brilliant golds and greens and reds of the thread; watching the pattern slowly build.

Frigga paused in her work and met his eyes. She patted the bench by her side.

“You are always welcome here,” she said, smiling with sorrow in her eyes.

He stayed where he was until he saw the way the red and green threads entangled in her basket and hated the sight.

Anger and sorrow bloomed. He took to the air, wings beating a violent pattern. He darted at her, denying the sheen of tears in her eyes. He wheeled down at the last moment, snatching up one single red thread before flying off. He felt her regard on him as he soared into the sky, the weight of her gaze following him to where he disappeared into invisibility.

He flew. He flew, on and on, out along the cliffs to the furthermost point, to where the water flowed endlessly down into infinity. His claws grabbed rock; he settled into rest. The wind whipped the gleaming red thread out of his grasp and hurled it toward the abyss, wrapping it against one last outcropping of stone where it caught and held fast. The red end shivered in the air. The wind shifted his feathers until he became tired of them and relaxed into his own form.

What he had always thought was his own form. He clasped his arms around his knees and hugged tightly, wanting to close his eyes against the color of his skin.

Pale limbs, pale torso. No Jötunn blue. No Jötunn markings. How had Odin done it? How had he accomplished spellwork this deep, this complicated, a glamour strong enough to last centuries, with him being all unaware?

How was it done? How was it undone? Did his skin change solely by the touch of Jötunn hands or artifacts, or could it happen at any time?

Could he change it forever, find some means to rid himself of his Jötunn skin for all time?

He stared out across the abyss, toward where Jötunheim lay, an infinite distance without the Bifrost, or to those without his knowledge of walking among Yggdrasil’s branches. He thought of frozen ground, of a land whose star was a pale and puny thing, whose jagged broken buildings were little darker than the sky itself.

He thought of Laufey, the monster king of a monstrous world.

He thought of Mad One’s scarred face and insane eyes. _How do I stop what is to be? Why give me riddles and not facts? Why show me a tapestry with most of the image blank and expect me to change what is to be?_

He thought of ice, and thought of a Jötunn grasping his arm, and the touch of ice on his skin. He imagined snow falling all around him, burying him, claiming him. He remembered how it felt, to pick up and hold the Casket of Ancient Winters, and how the icy cold flowed from it into his body like a slow energy wave along his skin.

And felt the shift inside him, and allowed it, and watched with sick fascination as the blue claimed his skin and Jötunn markings worked their patterns across his body.

Breath seized in his chest and he had to look away. So he could change if he willed it. But why would he ever? He stared down into the abyss, watching the endless fall of water, the play of stars and nebulae down and down into infinity, rage momentarily retreated, burned away by every conflicting thought that warred within his mind.

He shifted his gaze and contemplated the Bifrost, watching the play of the power it contained flash and flare along its length. He wished that Thor was there. But if he were he’d push him away in shame and rage. Thor hated monsters. Thor slew monsters. He wished he was anywhere other than where he was, in any skin other than the one he was in.

A sound in his chest broke him, and averting his eyes from his blue skin he became magpie again, unwilling to be Æsir, to claim to what no longer belonged to him.

But he remained on the rock, staring thoughtfully at the Observatory, and considered the words his not-father had told to Thor before he banished him.

_You have opened these peaceful realms and innocent lives to the horrors of war._

And the Mad One had said:

_Whatever plans have been made for you, set them aside and make your own, but choose against mindless immediate vengeance. That will lead you to your destruction_

He had torn at his skin. He had wanted to destroy everything around him. He had wanted to burn everything to the ground.

_Your skin is not your own._

Now, he wanted to think. The Council wanted war and blood and death and destruction.

But if he led them into war, how soon before an assassin stabbed him in the back? None would duel openly with him any longer; none spoke the words of contempt to his face any longer to provoke holmgang. Those who did regretted it an instant before their deaths. Those who remained were convinced of his cowardice and trickery, despising his seiðr while acknowledging its power.

He contemplated the power of the Bifrost. And then he knew.

No one had ever used its power as a weapon. But there was no reason why that couldn’t be done.

Yes. This would work. He would do as his grandfa— **NOT** his grandfather—as Bor had done, when he had annihilated the Dark Elves. He would kill **_all_** the Jötnar. And he would do it more quickly and cleanly than Bor had been able to do. How many Asgardian lives had been lost in Bor’s war? Countless.

Yes. This was a good plan. It was what Odin wanted – there would be no war. No horror. No thousands of Asgardian deaths.

He would accomplish what Odin and Thor had both attempted and failed.

He would prove himself to Odin, prove himself worthy to be a son. Prove himself not to be a monster. The glamour would become real, if there were no Jötnar left to claim him kin.

This would accomplish _everything_.

_“I will slay **all** the monsters,”_ he whispered. And that felt very right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Back to Midgard. What story will he tell to Thor, now in Coulson's custody?


	3. Chapter 3

“Ah,” Loki said, as the Bifrost closed behind him, leaving him where Heimdall had sent him, to the place where Odin had banished Thor. “Of course.” He looked around at the familiar hilly landscape, the scrubby plants, the distant mountains. _So this is why the Mad One sent me here that first time. He wanted me to know this place._

Eyes gleamed at him in the near-dark. The doglike creature, whose name he suddenly knew, was standing on a ridge, staring at him.

Loki already knew where Thor was, where Mjolnir was; their signals to him were like lodestones calling to iron. He could simply magic himself there. But when the animal spirit thought to him _Come with me_ , then turned and loped across the landscape he followed its lead to where the mortals had made an encampment.

He studied it thoughtfully. The mortals had created an interesting soft structure around Mjolnir. They had really become quite clever with the materials they used to build things.

He circled around it, melding with the wind that blew here, and determined its patterns. Thor was in one of their chambers. Some Midgardian man was peppering him with useless questions. And his not-brother looked so worn. So defeated. So broken. The last time he had seen him – that horrifying trip to Jötunheim, where Thor had lived down to his every expectation, he had been filled with arrogance, vanity, and thoughtlessness. They could have all died. They would have all died if fa–Odin had not arrived at the last possible moment.

Perhaps he should not have tried to ruin Thor’s coronation by letting the Jötnar into the vault. But if he had not done so, he was certain they’d all be on some battlefield even now, fighting and dying for glory. Perhaps they’d even be on Jötunheim, fighting Laufey and his forces, and the weave would be the same.

But if they had never gone to Jötunheim –

He would never have known the truth of his own skin.

And he hated Thor for that. **Loki** was the liar – not the one being **told** lies. And Thor’s stupidity had brought this truth upon him.

And Thor. What would Thor’s face look like when he found out the truth? He saw it clearly – Thor’s features twisted with hatred and disgust, mouth open to revile him, an instant before he swung Mjolnir and dashed out the brains of the despised Jötunn monster.

Shaking, he drew in a deep breath and blanked out his expression.

The man questioning Thor stepped out. And Loki stepped in.

And there Thor was before him, like a beaten dog, with a type of despair and pain on his face like Loki had never seen before.

At last the golden one, the hero, the center of all admiration, (the one he had always admired the most), brought so low he might as well be on his knees. He gloried in the sight of Thor disgraced and humiliated; for once, in his long life, paying the price for his stupidity and recklessness.

Thor, to whom every good thing had always come so easily, love, admiration, approval, prowess, victory, so many gifts that he was careless how he spent them. A rage so vast it could blot out the stars of all the realms seized Loki; the memories of a lifetime of Thor’s heedless words, of his laughter with his friends at Loki’s expense, slashed through him like a thousand knife cuts scoring his skin. He _wanted_ revenge. He _wanted_ Thor to suffer, as he had suffered.

Thor, stunned, met his gaze. “Loki – what are you doing here?”

“I had to see you.”

“What’s happened?” Desperate pleading filled Thor’s face, his voice. “Tell me, is it Jötunheim? Let me explain to father!”

Words were crowding his mouth, cruel words, lies ready to strip the skin from his brother’s flesh. _I will tell him,_ he thought, _that Odin is dead and mother has disowned him. I will revel in his suffering. I will–_

But he hadn’t planned this. No, not this. This utter loss, this mortality, this exile. He’d been planning a minor humiliation, a small setback for the Odinson, to make the man think for once in his entire life of what it might mean to be a king.

He never meant this – never meant to see Thor gelded of his power and flung to this barren ground on backward Midgard.

No, he’d never planned this, and a thousand memories of adventures together flashed through his mind, of hunting great beasts and riding the mountaintops and laughing into the wind and singing songs and telling tales at firesides and in taverns and the slide and ecstasy of their flesh together, all of it; the constant push and pull of their minds and bodies that defined their lives.

He kept his gaze on Thor’s slumped figure.

_Thor did not abandon me, nor did his loyalty nor his love falter until I destroyed it. He is constant. Remember that, even if you forget all else._

He wanted to scream to the Mad One, to the memory he fervently desired to take as a mere nightmare of a ravaged face and insane eyes; he wanted it all to be delusion. But it wasn’t delusion, and he wanted to beg the monster (himself!) for answers instead of cryptic clues. He was sick with the lack of answers, panicked that he was already caught, trapped and helpless in the web of destiny and fate.

Thor was still staring at him, eyes begging for an answer.

He took a breath. “Father is in the Odinsleep. Your banishment – the threat of a new war – it was too much for him to bear.” There were tears now in Thor’s eyes. Why was the taste of his triumph over Thor’s headstrong pride bile and ash? _Liar!_ he thought. But he could not bear to speak the truth, did not know how to do so, how to form the words and say to Thor, _I am not your brother; I am the monster you desire to slay, and your father fell into his Sleep in the face of my rage._

Thor stared, speechless.

“The burden of the throne has fallen to me now.”

“Can I come home?”

The tears on Thor’s face, the shameless pleading in his voice gave him a shiver of pure pleasure and equal pain. “I cannot undo what the All-Father has done.”

“Couldn’t we find a way?”

Thor’s agonized voice crushed something deep inside him, as if the air had been forced from his lungs. _Thor did not abandon me, nor did his loyalty nor his love falter until I destroyed it._

The Mad One’s lunatic gaze filled his vision, and he inhaled deeply.

He picked out his words as if picking out shrapnel from a near-lethal wound, knowing he was walking a razor-thin path over a precipice, aware that destruction awaited his smallest mistake, aware that any mistaken word he said would be as if one of his own knives had turned against him.

“We are on the verge of war with Jötunheim, and you are mortal now. You cannot join us in this war. You have not the strength. You do not possess Mjolnir. I cannot grant this. Not at this time.”

Thor flinched, his eyes reflecting the pain of the knife Loki had just slid into his heart. “No. I am sorry. Thank you for coming here.”

Loki grasped for another thread in the pattern. So difficult, not knowing the original pattern, what had to be picked apart and made into something new.

Loki held out his hand – and Thor’s eyes suddenly reflected hope and trust.

On a whim, Loki made the apple he’d stolen and concealed for some future purpose appear suddenly in Thor’s hand. He knew not if it could aid a mortal. But he would throw the bones and see where they fell and wait for the pattern to appear.

Thor stared at it, fear and hope and incomprehension battling across his face. With a twist of Loki’s fingers Iðunn’s apple disappeared, and Thor’s gaze dropped to the ground, once again the brightness of tears in his eyes.

“Wish for it and it will return to you.”

“Thank you, brother.” Thor’s voice was rough.

Loki swallowed. “This is goodbye, brother. For now. I’m so sorry.”

“No. I am sorry. Thank you for coming here.”

“Farewell,” Loki breathed, and was gone.

* * * * *

He went to look at Mjolnir, of course. He felt shaken through, unmade, unready to face Heimdall’s far gaze. Then the thought of Thor’s hammer came to him – ah, yes.

Coyote was sitting on his haunches eyeing the hammer. He looked thoughtfully at it. Should he take it? Could he?

He wrapped his hand around the handle and pulled. Mjolnir sang a song to him of recognition and refusal and stayed stubbornly wedded to Midgardian earth.

He straightened. Coyote’s eyes gleamed at him, while mortals walked back and forth around them, bearing strange chattering equipment. Unsettled, filled with energy with nowhere to direct it, he spun in a circle, looking for something to destroy.

Then a smile sliced his face. What splendid fun it would be to throw them all into chaos. Coyote grinned in agreement. Loki made a complicated hand gesture and the hammer vanished.

The mortals began shouting and scurrying and pointing their equipment at where the hammer should be, and still was, only now it existed beyond their sight and the sensing of their instruments. Loki looked over the hammer at Coyote and they exchanged satisfied looks. The hammer, which now only the two of them could see, still rested on the stone outcropping between them.

Coyote extended a thread of power to him, and he responded in kind, recognizing their kinship. They grinned at each other, brothers-in-chaos. Then Loki strode away laughing back into the darkness, back to where he called to Heimdall and was taken by lightning and power back to Asgard.

* * * * *

Loki returned to his chambers and spelled his books again and again, and yet they held no answers. Laufey had sent no response, and though Heimdall’s sight was now focused on Jötunheim, he had not spied aught of interest. He paced his chambers, his mind seizing at ideas, wringing them until they proved false, jumping from one concept to the next. _Why must he do? What must he leave undone?_

As magpie again he settled on the wall outside Odin’s bedchamber, folded his wings, and watched Frigga weave, listened to the loom as she worked. She looked up and met his eyes with a steady gaze.

“Join me.”

He cocked his head, feathers rustling, then allowed himself to shift into his false Æsir skin. He perched on the wall, not allowing his feet to touch the space where weaving was done, though he had trespassed into places where only women were permitted to be many times before, first as a dare to himself, and then from curiosity. And then, many more times, whenever Frigga beckoned to him and showed him the seiðr that dwelled within him and taught him many things.

But that had been when he knew who he was. That was before he had known himself a monster. Now, he felt only a breath away from all of Asgard rejecting him, casting him out, ripping him apart.

She ceased her weaving and extended a hand to him. “Join me.   Please.”

He sneered. “In what form?”

“Sit beside me, son.”

The word stabbed him. Her eyes, her smile declared her to be telling the truth. But what was truth? Truth could be a weapon, a lie all its own. _Truth could be lied with_. Sometimes easier than blatant falsehoods.

He set foot on the paving stones and gave her a sly smile.   “Shall I be woman for this, or man? **_Or your Jötunn cuckoo_**?”

She indicated he sit by her side on the stone bench, but he did not move.   “You shall be Loki for this.”

“And what is that?” Bile filled his voice. “I am not-son, not-brother, not-Æsir. What is Loki?”

“Whatever you make of it.”

“Your ergi son, then?” he hissed. “One called _níðingr_ by all the realms?”

She didn’t flinch. “What do men know of mysteries? They battle and boast, while the larger tale is told around them. Let them use their foul words. You have always been victor in holmgang.”

“Ah, but as all know, it is by lies and trickery that I am victorious. And words mean so very much,” he spat. “Because even when they are lies they are all true.”

She closed her eyes in pain. “I have failed you in every way. I thought to give you that which you could claim as your own, and yet I have condemned you to all you have suffered.”

He stood frozen for a moment, without words for once, then walked to stand behind her. He recoiled at what she had woven.

Her tapestry began with a foundation of beautifully wrought trees and animals and plants, and then above them a harmonious pattern began, red and green threads travelling in concert together, beginning to form something beautiful. Then the pattern broke into chaos, an angry formless tangle of red and green clashing together, interwoven with black, ending in nothing.

She was watching him again. She seized his hand and stared into his eyes. “There are dark portents everywhere. Ill omens abound. I would rather stay by your father’s bedside, but this is a war we are fighting, and I must do my part.”

“I have been scrying,” he said, “but the waters are stormy. They boil over and reveal nothing.”

“Others have heard the Tale you are telling,” she whispered. “Other Hands are weaving the story now, the one you have already woven in your mind. It is harder than you can imagine, to weave thusly, without control. Hard,” she whispered, and a single tear slid from one eye and ran shining down her cheek, “when my hands lost control of the pattern. Because of course the pattern is not mine, much as I would desire it to be. Better I weave the tapestries of the past, than those of the future.”

He stared at the weaving for long moments. “What happens when you work a pattern and then change your mind and want to make something new? How can the pattern be changed?”

“Ah,” she said. “It is difficult. Difficult to change. We set ourselves on certain courses and follow those patterns.”

He smiled suddenly, sharply. “I always have new tales to tell which are often believed in the telling. But none trust what I do, because I then change and take a different path. ”

She laid a hand against his face. “Only you can do this weaving. Are you strong enough to weave anew?”

“How, then, do I change the pattern?”

“First, you must destroy the old.”

She touched his hands, and her seiðr embraced him. She gestured to the loom, and a tiny bit of black thread dissolved near the top of the weft. She placed her hands on the fabric and showed him how to unpick the thread.

She moved aside and he took her place. He set his hands on the fabric and did as she had shown him.

At first it was easy, and he grew confident. But as he loosened and pulled out one bit of thread after another, something inside him began to tighten and tie together. He continued working, though it was becoming more difficult to breathe, and his hands were growing numb.

Anger sparked, and many thoughts began racing. He felt himself now behind the Mad One’s eyes, exulting in all the destruction he had wrought, regretting his regrets. Why change anything? Every one of them despised him, hated him, reviled him. They were all worms beneath his feet, deserving of chaos and death.

He gasped for breath and picked out a few more threads. It was hard to focus his eyes on the weave. The chaotic mass of thread was still there, barely undone. He struggled for breath, fear now beating at his mind. He snarled at the fabric and attempted to rip out more thread.

Frigga’s hands were on his shoulders; she was calling his name, shouting his name, but there was a darkness in front of his vision now. Pain flashed like lightning through his fingers, and his hands were bleeding, and his pulse was racing, and fury and anger and rage and panic too big to contain was forcing itself through his skin, and he was shouting something – something –

His back was against the wall, several feet from the loom, and Frigga was kneeling before him, calling his name. He reached bleeding hands up to touch her face, then when he saw the dripping blood he let them fall to his sides. She caressed his face, his hair, and spoke to him in a low, soft voice, and finally his senses cleared and he could make out her words.

He lay there gasping a moment longer, and Frigga’s loom came into focus.

The center part looked lightning-struck, full of soot and ash, covered with a taint of rot and disease. She followed his gaze, looked back, her face full of anguish and apology.

“Well,” he said, after catching his breath. “I see I shall have to find another way.”

And he would start by getting Thor back.

* * * * *

“All-Father, we must speak with you urgently.” Sif and the Warriors Three came rushing into Odin’s hall.

How quickly their hands left their hearts as their shocked gaze fell upon him. “My friends…” But of course they had never been such.

Fandral spoke for them all. “Where’s Odin?”

“Father has fallen into the Odinsleep. Mother fears he may never awaken again.”

Sif fixed him with her hostile gaze. “We would speak with her.”

“She will not leave their chambers now. You can bring your urgent matter to me.” He stood straight and tall and displayed Gungnir. “Your king.”

And how good it felt to see them kneel before him, burning with their insincerity, Sif’s hateful glare as hot as fire.

Sif struggled to make her tone one of respect. “My king, we would ask that you lift Thor’s banishment.”

“My first command cannot be to undo the All-Father’s last. And who is Thor Odinson without Mjolnir? Will you have him return to Asgard, still in disgrace? As a mortal?” He fixed Sif with his gaze, then the rest of them. “We’re on the brink of war with Jötunheim. Our people need a sense of continuity in order to feel safe in these difficult times.” He stepped down to the next level, and leaned forward, the better to loom above them. “All of us must stand together for the good of Asgard.”

Sif leapt to her feet, fiery rage marking her face. Fandral and Hogun grabbed her. They, at least, understood the proper response to him was fear.

His hand curled around Gungnir, ready to conjure fire to blast her in her tracks. The effrontery! The disrespect! The contempt!

Fandral watched him cautiously even as he held the enraged Sif back from what Loki was picturing as her fiery death. “Yes, of course,” he breathed.

Loki kept his voice calm. “Good, then you will wait for my word.”

Volstagg spoke up. “If I may, beg the indulgence of –” he laughed disbelievingly, the _traitor!_ “–Your Majesty, but to perhaps reconsider.”

He wanted to kill them all. This moment. “We’re DONE!”

The Warriors Three showed a tiny glimmer of intelligence by leaving immediately. Sif, however, gave him a hot glare before she followed the others.

Fury ran through his veins like lava, and the urge to punish them drove him to follow. They retreated to a dining chamber. Loki clung to the ceiling in the form of an insect and watched and listened. It was tedious to watch Volstagg stuff himself and Fandral pace and Sif and Hogun sulk in their chairs, but finally, as he had anticipated, they began discussing treason.

Fandral began shouting, “Our dearest friend banished! Loki on the throne! Asgard on the brink of war!”

He would have their heads up on pikes before the next day’s dawn! Though he supposed he ought to have the formality of a trial, first.  

Fandral started hurling insults at Volstagg for his gluttony, who leapt to his feet in anger. Sif and Hogun intervened before Fandral and Volstagg came to blows. Her voice was hard, determined. “We all know what we have to do.”

_She would die first,_ Loki decided.

When Hogun said, “We must go. We must find Thor,” Loki let go of his perch and flew the length of the Bifrost. He settled into his Æsir form just as he reached the Observatory. Heimdall was watching with his carefully controlled expression.

He gave Heimdall an unsettling smile. “Did you know that the Lady Sif, Fandral, Volstagg and Hogun wish to commit treason?”

Heimdall’s golden eyes did not betray curiosity or guilt. “I do, my King.”

“Permit them to leave. Do not permit them to return.”

He smiled into Heimdall’s face, daring him to comment or indicate by the slightest expression that Heimdall contemplated treason of his own. And though something flickered in Heimdall’s eyes he remained impassive, “I obey, my King.”

He smiled again and spared a glance out of the Observatory to where that icy monster-infested rock lay. _Soon,_ he promised. _Soon._

He strode back towards Asgard. Thor’s friends were approaching, their faces full of determination and self congratulation about the righteousness of their cause. He made himself invisible and stood watching as they passed by and headed to the Observatory.

_Treason!_ He aimed Gungnir at Sif; it vibrated in tune to his rage.

Here he was, their rightful King, and rather than swearing fealty to him they bore no regard for him at all. Less then that, they held him in contempt. Forget putting them on trial. He should,

_Require them to perform foul deeds until they despaired of their places in Valhalla._

He should,

_Destroy them all, flame them out of existence_

He should

_Rouse the Destroyer and burn them all to ash!_

He should –

_– reweave the threads –_

He should –

He smiled. Yes. It would work.

He should send the Destroyer.


	4. Chapter 4

Loki took up a position on the rooftop of one of the Midgardian village buildings. Two of the mortals had left the soft structure surrounding Mjolnir and taken up similar positions on another rooftop, primitive weapons in hand, but they seemed to be doing nothing more than watch the village street.

He had decided he needed to be there, in the flesh, not controlling the Destroyer from the throne.

It wasn’t as if he had the time to wait until Thor stumbled into some quest to prove his worthiness. As a mortal, Thor might live out his mayfly life before ever having the opportunity to prove his worthiness of Mjolnir.

Loki swallowed. As a mortal, Thor might _die_ at any time. Mortals were so fragile, so easily broken. And, he had discovered, he _wanted_ Thor back.

Exactly as planned, the storm appeared in the sky and the whirlwind deposited the Destroyer on Midgardian soil. He whispered to it, “Do exactly as I command.”

It went well. He directed it to destroy some ground vehicles and unimportant structures. All of the mortals had fled. It was quite satisfying to toss Volstagg in the air. Sif was on the approach, so he allowed it to threaten Volstagg where he lay on the wreckage of one of the vehicles. Sif thrust her sword completely through the Destroyer, a useless endeavor. But where was Thor? Without Thor’s active participation, this was a waste of time he could be spending on destroying Jötunheim.

The Destroyer reset and he had it shoot a bolt quite close to Sif, speculating as to what she would look like with her hair singed off. Thor’s friends fell back, and he directed fire against them, aimed to fall short. Volstagg and Hogun took refuge inside one of the village structures; he took pleasure in the dramatic damage he directed to it, taking them out of the fight.

Annoying whizzing and zinging and popping sounds filled the air. The black-garmented mortals on the other rooftop were firing their primitive weapons which flung useless tiny projectiles at the Destroyer. Courageous fools.

Ah, there was Thor at last, running to Sif’s side, pleading with her to leave. She argued with him, pleased with describing the stories that would be told of her valor on this day. Thor urged her to leave, and Loki aimed another bolt in their direction to encourage her on her way. Thor was the one who needed to take action.

Ah. Thor had gone over to his friends, urging them to return to Asgard – and to continue their treason against him.

Anger flashed through his mind and for an instant he considered reducing them all to ash.

The last thing the Mad One had whispered into his ear flashed through his mind.

_Do not destroy foolishly. Chaos creates from what it destroys, but if you burn everything nothing survives_

Finally. Thor’s friends, Asgardian and Midgardian, were retreating, and Thor himself was walking purposefully directly at the Destroyer. Entirely as he expected.

_Foolish. So foolish. As mortal he was walking straight to death. Would his courage be enough?_

Thor was talking to him. “Brother, whatever I have done to wrong you – whatever I have done to lead you to do this – I am truly sorry. But these people are innocent. Taking their lives will gain you nothing.”

He motioned, and the Destroyer’s faceplate opened again, readying the fire. The final test.

“So take mine and end this.”

_Ah. Perhaps that was enough. The hero facing the monster, prepared to sacrifice all._

He gestured again and the Destroyer’s faceplate closed. He directed it to turn, to walk away, and focused his gaze on where he knew Mjolnir lay.

Nothing. He could sense the hammer still lying quiescent in its dried-mud resting place. Clearly something more was required. Just one more subtle touch. He would have the Destroyer strike at Thor, but carefully, enough to knock him down but not badly damage him; enough to accept the sacrifice; not enough to destroy.

Focusing carefully, he reached out in a gesture.

Something struck his arm and he jerked it, startled. The primitive projectile that had hit his arm had already ricocheted away.

And the Destroyer flung out his arm, striking a terrible blow, sending Thor flying far through the air to collapse in a heap upon the street.

And the sight of Thor broken, bloodied, lifeless upon the ground tore every shred of Loki apart. He shrieked and leaped from the rooftop and fell, invisible, to his knees at his brother’s side, the mortal woman falling to her knees opposite him.

Thor was yet breathing. He was whispering to mortal woman. Blood was bubbling in his throat and a thin wheezing sound came from between his lips.

Lightning struck in the distance and Loki flinched at the sound of thunder. A storm was forming in the sky over where Mjolnir yet lay.

There was a horrible rattle in Thor’s throat. Loki flicked two fingers, and Iðunn’s apple flickered into sight, right in the palm of Thor’s hand. Would the apple even work on a mortal? He’d given it to Thor on a whim, thinking it might be of use to him if he came down with some mortal illness. He slid a morsel of apple between Thor’s lips, but it lay there, inert. Thor had gone completely still. Loki’s heart froze inside him.

And Mjolnir came blasting out of the sky and the humans dragged the mortal woman away and Loki scrambled away from Thor.

And the hammer fell screaming into Thor’s hand.

Lightning flashed down from the sky into the hammer and everything became very loud and very bright. Then Thor was on his feet, armor forming in the glare and heat and stuttering light around him.

Loki gasped for breath, hands shaking, and fell back against the ground. It took Thor mere moments to create a powerful whirlwind and to demolish the Destroyer.

Loki sighed in irritation. The Destroyer had been a useful tool. He should have moved faster, swept it away, back to the Bifrost, before Thor could break it apart.

He should –

But Thor was down on the ground again, and striding towards his friends. Annoyingly, Loki was still trembling. Suddenly he didn’t want to see Thor’s godlike countenance, the power in him, the confidence!

There were suddenly a lot of people milling about – Thor’s human and Asgardian friends, and more black-clad humans arriving from their soft compound. Their chatter buzzed in his ears, and suddenly he wanted to sweep them all away.

Loki got to his feet, turned his back on Thor, and decided he’d just leave him to his own devices. He didn’t bother going back to the Bifrost site. He gestured, and a rift opened between the worlds. He walked right through and appeared in Heimdall’s domain, not even attempting to conceal his knowledge of worldwalking.

He ignored Heimdall’s disapproving glare. “Good Heimdall, summon guards.”

It took but moments for a phalanx of Einherjar to arrive.

“Heimdall, when they call, bring back only Sif, Fandral, Volstaff, and Hogun.” He addressed the Einherjar. “Take those four to the dungeons; imprison them in the same cell. When they question, tell them they have committed treason against the King of Asgard. Heimdall, once they have crossed the Bifrost and been taken to the dungeon, you may bring back Thor.”

He felt the weight of Heimdall’s furious gaze on his back as he strode onto the Bifrost. Once he reached the other side he cast a tiny spell, just enough to divert Heimdall’s sight and hearing elsewhere for a moment. “Oh,” he tossed carelessly over his shoulder to the Captain of the Einherjar guarding the entry to the city. “I ordered Lady Sif, Volstagg, Fandral, and Hogun sent to the dungeons. Release them one hour after they have been confined there.” Much as he would like to destroy them all, Thor would want his pets back and would be upset if Loki had them put down. Right now, he was inclined to be magnanimous.

New plans were forming as he went along his way.

* * * * *

Loki was seated artfully casually on the throne, Gungnir held loosely in one hand, when Thor strode in, cape whipping behind him, fury like lightning flashing in his eyes. “Brother –” he began in a threatening tone.

Loki offered him a lazy smile. “Why, Thor, will you not kneel to me?”

Thor roared, “Release them from the dungeon!” and took another step forward.

“Why? They committed treason against the King of Asgard.”

Thor ground his teeth. “Grant them mercy.”

“You had only to ask. Actually, it’s already been done. They may even be on their way here now, to speak more words of sedition.”

Thor stared at him, bewildered. “Why? Did you want to rouse their anger against you?”

“Already roused centuries ago, I would say. Do you think they would be any less angry with me if I did nothing? Or would you prefer I banished them to Midgard for their acts? Perhaps I shall exile them to Jötunheim. What think you? What fitting fate do they reserve for treason?”

Thor sputtered, choked, then spoke again. “What game are you playing, Loki?”

“Many, Thor.” Loki offered him a sly smile. “Many.”

“Loki…” Lightning struck outside and thunder rumbled through the hall. “Why the Destroyer? Why did you want us all dead?”

Loki waved a careless hand. “No one died. A few Midgardian structures were damaged or knocked down, some of their objects were destroyed. Nothing of importance.”

“The Destroyer DESTROYS – many could have died!”

“I am not as careless as that.”

Thor sucked in a breath. “What?”

“The Destroyer follows the wishes of the King. As you know.”

“And your wish was our death?”

Loki sighed, exasperated. “Must I repeat myself? If I had wished you dead, you would be. Did you not wonder at the taste of one of Iðunn’s apples in your mouth?”

Thor paused. “You – were there?”

“I was.”

Thor, appalled, demanded, “Commanding the Destroyer’s actions from some nearby position?”

Loki raised his brows. “Does it make any different where I was when I directed my player? Here, on the throne, or there in Midgard?”

**_“Did you wish me so much harm that you struck me a killing blow?”_ **

“Ah, well, that was unintentional.” Loki tapped a finger against the arm of the throne. “A mortal weapon distracted me. But as you see,” he spread his hands, “All is well.”

“Was it naught but a play to you?”

“Oh, no. Not a play.”

“But why?”

Loki stood, looming over him, and brought Gungnir down against the floor. The hall rang with its power. “We have much to do. Laufey has made many demands. It would make it too easy for him if you were still mortal.”

Thor’s fingers curled, and the hammer appeared in his hand.

“And so you see I was successful.”

“Explain yourself!”

“I had not the time to waste while you spent your time in mortal drinking halls or courting mortal women. Or should I say, you had not the time to waste. How many years would have gone by before you found some quest worthy of regaining Mjolnir? I simply hastened the process.”

Pure rage flared in Thor’s eyes. “There is no honor in following a false quest!” he roared.

“Ah, but you believed it to be a true quest.”

“But if there was never any danger, it was a false quest.”

“And yet, here you are, hammer in hand, your power restored.”

“Aye, but –”

Loki sighed impatiently. “What objection could you possibly have? How many years of your mortal life did you wish to waste until you found some way to prove your worth in order for you to return to Asgard? I want you here, not there.”

Thor held his gaze for a long moment, then took in a deep breath, expelled it, and set Mjolnir down. “What of Jötunheim? Tell me the consequences of what I did. Are we at war?”

“We are close. Very close.”

“Then we should call all the Council and – ”

Loki brought Gungnir down again and Thor stilled, staring into his eyes. “I am still your king, Thor, and will be until Odin awakes. I alone will call the Council, and they are not needed now.”

“ _Brother –_ ” Thor began.

Enraged, Loki amplified his voice. **_“I am not your brother!”_**

Thor stared at him, baffled.

“What madness is this? I understand not your words.”

Loki leapt down the steps and strode to the empty Council chamber, Thor on his heels. He halted by the tapestry which depicted the final battle on Jötunheim, all the details picked out in Frigga’s perfect weaving - Odin’s crushing of the Jötnar, his theft of the Casket of Ancient Winters, the source of their power.

He gestured at the tapestry. “It does not tell the full tale.”

Thor’s eyes were filled with confusion and sorrow and pity. Loki, furious, realized Thor believed his own words – that Loki had gone mad.

He paced back and forth beneath the tapestry, biting off his words. “I will tell you a tale, Thor. It is a tale told to me, but not willingly. It is a short one, and it has no end. It is the tale of a sleeping king, and a war he waged many years ago. The reasons were all the usual ones – power, treasure, and lies.”

He paused. Thor was intent on his every word, concentrating, concern in every line of his so-honest face.

“There are no heroes in this tale, though the victors count themselves as such,” he said bitterly. “The king fought another king. That king had cast out his infant son, left him to die in a Jötunn temple. And for political reasons, the One-Eyed King took the child.”

Thor’s mouth opened, closed. “I take not your meaning, brother.” Though his voice, and the dawning revelation in his eyes told another story.

“I am NOT your brother. Have you not understood a word? **_Or did you know this all along, and have been lying to me all my life?”_**

“Brother, I have **never** lied to you. I speak plain: I do not understand your words.”

“Shall I tell you plain, then?” And yet his throat wanted to close on the words, never utter them, never make them real. Thor’s face was full of pain and confusion and anger, and his own rage and confusion and anger leapt to meet it full force. He spat the words out: “My name, by right, is Loki Laufeyson!”

Thor reared back, face contorted in disbelief and shock. “It cannot be!”

“Oh, because the great Thor Odinson decrees it so? You are not king. You cannot understand the subtlety of Odin’s mind. You cannot imagine the plans he had for me.” Words crowded his throat, enough to choke him. He strode back and forth the length of the chamber, then stopped and gave Thor a ferocious glare. “You never knew the workings of politics! You are not fit to be king of any realm! I’ve known that for years, which is why I have done everything that I have done!”

Thor was shaking his head. “Who has told you these mad things?”

“Why, the All-Father himself. And she who is not my mother. I wonder if they would ever have bothered – if I hadn’t found out for himself. All because of your little visit to Jötunheim!”

“What mean you by that?”

“We both lost everything on Jötunheim!” He stepped forward, halting inches from Thor’s face. Thor took a step back, and Loki felt a sick sense of triumph and rage and something else, stabbing him in the heart. “How should the story end, he-who-is-not-my-brother? Shall you slay one more monster?” He spat out the last words, ice in his heart, ice in his soul, and, throat thick with revulsion, watched as his hands, his arms, his body turned blue.

Thor’s eyes were blown wide. “Do not think to trick me, brother. I have seen you change into all manner of things. But you remain yourself, despite your shape.”

“THIS IS NOT A LIE!” He was gasping for breath, clenched with nausea at the sight of his blue skin, enraged that Thor still did not believe. His hands were out before him, ice forming into jagged spears from his finger tips, readying to lunge.

“Your sorcery matters not.” Thor’s gaze was sweeping over him, head to foot and back again, before once more looking into what Loki knew were red, red eyes. Despite what he saw, Thor reached out one hesitant hand. “Loki, please.”

Loki shuddered, all over, and then fell back into his Æsir form.

“I will go get mother,” Thor said slowly, watching him carefully.

Loki recoiled, the pity on Thor’s face hitting him like acid on skin, flaying him raw. “Do as you will!” Loki hissed. “I will not be here.”

Thor caught his hand. “Where will you go?”

“To deal with the monsters.”

Thor’s grip tightened painfully. “What are Laufey’s terms? Let me go to him! I will offer him weregild. What is his price to avoid war?”

“There isn’t going to be any war.” Loki yanked his hand away.

“Laufey demanded war. Has he named a price for peace? I should be the one to pay it.”

“He sent an envoy with threats and demands.”

“Did father respond?”

“Odin,” Loki answered, “had already fallen into the Odinsleep.”

“Then – have you responded?”

“Yes. Of course. The Council, of course, wanted to wage glorious war.”

“But father believed – ”

Loki spat on the floor.

Horrified, Thor glanced down, then back up. “Has Laufey accepted your terms?” When Loki did not answer, he narrowed his eyes. “Or did you accept his?”

“What are you accusing me of?” His tone was deadly venom.

“What have you done, Loki?” There was the rumble of thunder in his voice, and anger again showing in his eyes.

“Nothing.” He smiled. “Yet. The All-Father did not want war.   How did he say those words to you? Ah, yes.” He forced his voice into a mimickry of Odin’s tones, “ _Through your arrogance and stupidity you’ve opened these peaceful realms and innocent lives to the horror and desolation of war_.”

Thor recoiled. “Tell me now - what is Laufey’s price for what I did? Because, brother, it is mine to pay.”

“It matters not,” Loki said.

“I do not understand. Do you intend to do nothing then? Until Laufey attacks?”

Loki grabbed Thor’s shoulders and hissed into his face, “Do you think me a coward?”

“No, most assuredly not. What is your plan? You always have one.”

Loki dropped his hands. “Yes. I do. My plan will avert the horror and desolation the All-Father feared.” He gestured at the tapestry. “I am going to use the Bifrost,” he said, “to destroy them all.” He bared his teeth. And vanished.


	5. Chapter 5

Loki appeared in the Observatory and met Heimdall’s measured gaze. “Go to the Council chamber and wait there until I recall you.”

Heimdall’s hesitation was insolence, but he strode away a moment before Loki would have raised Gungnir against him.

Loki spared one glance into the infinity of space, to where Jötunheim lay. He imagined Laufey’s face, when he realized what was happening. This way was easier and better and, best of all, final, but it would be much more satisfying to go there himself and use Gungnir to blast Laufey into a frozen corpse.

He set the Bifrost coordinates on a pinpoint strike on the Jötnar temple where Laufey had left him to die. _See how your leavings repay you!_ he whispered to the darkness.

He seized Heimdall’s sword. He rammed it home.

The Observatory whirled, seeking its destination. Power erupted, the sound building, building. Yggdrasil’s image flashed light around the chamber, and the new bridge shot out and struck its target.

He held Gungnir tightly and watched without surprise as his not-brother arrived. Light flickered across Thor’s appalled face.

“Loki! You cannot do this! This is madness! You cannot kill an entire race!”

Loki stalked around the perimeter. “Why not? Your **_grandfather_** did! What is this newfound love for frost giants? You, who would have killed them all with your bare hands?”

“I’ve changed. This is wrong, Loki. Father would not want **_this_.** ” Thor’s gaze strayed desperately to where the Bifrost poured destruction on a distant world. “Stop this, brother.”

“Do you not want them dead? They threaten our realm, even now. Your way is slower and untidy. Many Asgardians would die. But in the end it would be the same - you would kill them all! Why **not** do it now?”

“What I did was wrong, Loki. I would make amends.”

“Whatever the cost?”

“Whatever the cost!”

“I will **_not_** pay Laufey’s price!”

Thor clenched his fist around Mjolnir’s haft. “I would not fight with you, brother. But I cannot allow this to happen.”

“What happened to you on Midgard to make you **_so soft_**?”

Thor roared in anger. Loki gestured and a dozen duplicates laughed as Thor threw his hammer. Mjolnir roared and raced around the observatory, passing harmlessly through all his false selves.

_Ah, Thor, what the King gave you the King’s staff can command._ Choosing the moment, he aimed Gungnir carefully and blasted Thor, pinning him against the wall, throwing a spell at the same time. Thor twitched, but Gungnir’s force held him in place, his right hand suddenly paralyzed and useless. Mjolnir skidded to a halt a few feet away from Thor’s hand, shook and shuddered, but did not move from where it lay. Thor cast despairing eyes on it, then glared back at Loki.

Loki stepped closer until he loomed above his not-brother. “You cannot summon it now.” Sound was rising around them, the Bifrost whine escalating and the whirling light becoming painfully bright.

Thor looked up at him with desperate eyes. “Loki, stop this. I beg of you!” Thor struggled ferociously against Gungnir’s force. Painfully slowly, he dragged himself to his knees, his right arm still dangling uselessly.

Loki looked in astonishment as Thor went to the proper position of respect for the king, on one knee. His right hand shook, unable to press it to his heart to complete the proper form. “Do not do this, Loki. I beg of you. If it must be war, we shall defeat them in honorable battle.”

“And who will follow **_me_** into honorable battle?”

“I will.” Thor bowed his head. “I have not the right to say these words; they are the All-Father’s alone to speak, but I would speak them to you. Do you swear to guard the nine realms? Do you swear to preserve the peace? Do you swear to cast aside all selfish ambition and to pledge yourself only to the good of the realm?”

Something clenched and tore inside him at the words and he cast one desperate glance back along the Bifrost path to Jötunheim before looking back at Thor. “Those words are for showy coronations. I **_am_** King.”

“I beg you, Loki.” Thor bent the other knee and now he was truly kneeling before him, face inches from his crotch, and at the sight of him, submissive, Loki was suddenly aroused.

He tangled his fingers tightly in Thor’s hair and pulled Thor’s head slightly forward, then let go. Thor tilted his head back, away from the sight of Loki’s arousal, obvious through his clothing, and looked at him with astonishment and humiliation.

“I can command you now.”

Thor’s pupils flared wide. “If you so desire.” The words were rough, low, spat out.

“Will you bend over for me? Will you make yourself _ergi_ for me?”

Thor had turned his gaze to the image of Yggdrasil, now pulsating wildly, splashing light around the chamber. He looked up at Loki, expressions of panic and shame warring for dominance on his face. “Anything you desire. Anything! I beg you, do not do this!”

Loki lowered the hand not holding Gungnir and rested his palm against the side of Thor’s neck in imitation of Thor’s favorite gesture. Thor’s eyes still pled with him. Light was cascading over them in shuddering waves and the Bifrost screamed as power built and built and built.

Loki tightened his hand, feeling Thor’s pulse beneath his palm, and dug his thumb into Thor’s neck. “Laufey,” he said, “wants your head as the price of peace.”

Shock, then resignation, then resolve filled Thor’s face. “So be it,” he said. “If it will bring peace, so be it.”

_Chaos creates from what it destroys, but if you burn everything nothing survives._

Loki released him. Thor stayed where he was, on his knees, naked anguish on his face.

“Oh, get up,” Loki said impatiently, and gestured, removing the spell. Thor’s hand moved and he heard Mjolnir scrape on the floor, but he was already turning.

Loki grabbed the hilt of Heimdall’s sword and pulled it out.

The flashing lights guttered and stopped, the bridge to Jötunheim vanished, and the shriek and whine of the power overload lessened in intensity, then cut out completely. Yggdrasil’s image disappeared and the Observatory appeared as it always had.

Loki blinked and staggered back against sudden dizziness as something great and vast shifted around him. He took another step back, perilously close to the edge of the Observatory’s outward entrance.

Images flooded in on him, tapestries exploding into threads untangling from each other, disconnected threads returning to skeins, and then to the spinning wheel, and then to simpler forms of plants, and then to the seed beneath the fertile earth, each image erasing itself as it dissolved into the next.

There, a serpent large enough to encircle an entire realm.

There, a wolf’s slavering jaws engulfing a star.

There, a wyrm, glittering drops of venom dripping from its fangs.

And everywhere, battlefields, hacked apart bodies, torn limbs, dead eyes in disfigured faces, and there were the corpses: Thor, and Sif, and Tyr, and there was Odin, and there were they all.

Almost all.

For there was the Mad One, insane eyes delighting in death, scarred mouth cackling as he strode over strewn corpses, hands dripping in blood, laughing as he reached up to bring down all the realms.

And there was Heimdall, hearth fire to the Mad One’s wildfire, order to his chaos, and they fell on each other, hacking and stabbing and rending and dissolving in mutual conflagration.

Then the battlefield vanished and the Mad One and Heimdall both were gone. The sky filled with green sparks and end bits of threads which disappeared into nothingness, swallowed by the void.

The Norns watched him, their eyes assessing, calculating, considering.

And they went back to the undone pattern and started their work anew.

 

He was sitting by a campfire, Thor beside him. The fire was warm, and he was pleasantly tired after the successful hunt, after the feast the servants had prepared for them. The servants had taken the dragon away, to prepare its skull for display on his trophy wall, to prepare its meat for their stewpots. They were alone.

This was the moment it had happened. He remembered the thoughts he had had, the anticipation of something long desired becoming real.

Thor had turned to him, and had placed his mouth on his. And when he had opened his own mouth and claimed Thor’s mouth in return, Thor had placed his hands wherever he liked. Lightning flashes of desire had sung along every bit of skin Thor touched. He had undone his clothing and allowed Thor to reach inside his breeches, to touch him however he pleased.

He had found himself on his back, so excited he had barely been able to draw breath. Thor’s face had been above him, so close, and the firelight had shone on his golden hair, making it brighter than the walls of Asgard. Thor had looked directly into his eyes and he had held Thor’s gaze even as Thor breached him. It had hurt, it had hurt a great deal, and perhaps he had cried out with the pain of it, and then the pleasure of it as Thor’s hand found his shaft. Above Thor there had been the night sky, the shine of the stars and the nebulas blinding him as Thor claimed him completely. He had been eager for the pleasure, a new feast for his senses, eager to be owned, eager to own, eager to possess something from Thor that was his and his alone.

_Mine,_ he had thought then. _I’ll have this from you, because you’ll never give the exact same gift to anyone else. Mine alone._

And their pleasure had peaked, and Thor had held him after, and whispered to him wonderful words, delightful words, words he had seized and claimed and hidden away.

And then that image was gone, and he was nowhere, suspended, looking into the Void. Infinity fell below, above, and around him, in all its gorgeous howling insanity, its façade of order, of gravity and lies, of realms bound together all teeming with life, and sunless worlds devoid of contact with anything sane. Coyote whispered, _there are Things out there. Things that are approaching._ Midgard first. Its billions are a beacon to all the predators prowling the dark areas between the stars. Asgard next.

Ah. The Weave was wider than he anticipated. _I think I have much more to do. What think you?_

Coyote nodded. _Walk the worlds and see what lies beyond._

He blinked, and everything changed.

He felt a most peculiar sensation - a vast and wholly unfamiliar sense of calm.

He became slowly aware he was leaning against something very warm and very solid, and there was a large arm around his back, large hand curled around his left arm, fingers resting gently against his chest.

But there was tension there still, in the set of the iron-hard body against his, and when he finally opened his eyes he saw Thor’s face in profile. His brother was staring out into infinity, staring out to where Jötunheim lay, and his face was creased with sorrow and regret.

He became aware he was sitting in the outward opening of the Observatory, and his legs were dangling into nothing, and everywhere he looked was possibility and the void.

His mind began ticking again. The sense of calm fell away. “Ah well,” he said regretfully, breath catching in his lungs as if he had been trapped in that same void and only now had learned how to breathe again.

Thor was staring at him, deep concern in his eyes. He then looked out into the abyss. “What is it that you see, brother?”

“Many things,” Loki breathed.

“Can you tell me what has happened, brother?”

“I told you,” Loki said, though there was no longer any anger in his voice. “I am not your brother.”

“I wish to understand your meaning. Tell me all.”

So Loki did, in every detail, from the moment his vambrace had shattered from a Jötunn’s touch to what Odin had told him – and oh, the shock and horror and sorrow on Thor’s face, and tears as well. He had continued, describing the words Frigga had spoken to him while they faced each other across Odin’s vast bed and how while Odin slept beneath the protective spell, he had been given the kingship, to the Council meeting, to the treachery of Sif, Fandral, Volstagg, and Hogun. And watched every broad stroke of emotion on Thor’s face, from concern to regret to remorse to love to anger to resolve.

Thor drew in a long breath once he was done. “What will you do now?”

Loki gave him a speculative smile.

Thor stood and went to Heimdall’s sword. Loki followed. Thor touched the hilt and looked at him as if expecting Loki to draw it and use it then and there to behead him. “Will you send me to Laufey now?”

“I will give the Monster King **_nothing_!” ** Loki spat. “Least of all you. **”** Loki pulled Thor’s hand from the hilt. “Laufey wants many things. He may continue to desire them – for as long as he lives. For as long as I permit him to live.” His smile was razor sharp. “Perhaps Laufey will accept my terms. He now knows what I am capable of. He now will understand that I can destroy them all with one single command. He should have thought carefully about what he threw away.”

Thor made to speak, and then stopped.

“What?” Loki tilted his head. “Say it now, Thor; I see it in your eyes.”

Thor still hesitated. “The realms will not view destruction of that sort to be an honorable action.” Thor waited for his response, and gaped in surprise when Loki laughed.

“I am not burdened with honor. All the realms know that.” Loki stalked around him. “Shall we do it your way then? The slow way, when many of our own will die? Slaughter slowly instead of quickly? For **_glory_**?”

Thor dropped his gaze. Loki tried to parse out the meaning of the unfamiliar expression on Thor’s face. Was it shame? Regret?

“Not that either,” Thor said finally, his voice rough.

“What, then?”

“Can we not… negotiate? Father did so.”

Loki stood before him, their faces bare inches apart. “And what do I say to the man who left me to die? Shall I say to him I am Loki Laufeyson?”

Thor’s voice was like the bones of the earth itself. “You say to him, you are the King of Asgard.”

“The monster king,” he spat. “As monstrous as Laufey! Will you swear fealty to this?” It was easier this time, to summon the ice inside. So much easier. He was suddenly looking at Thor out of scarlet eyes.

“I would swear fealty, and more!” Thor insisted.

“You **_lie!_** ” Loki hissed.

Thor didn’t flinch. He stepped forward, not back.

And Thor was suddenly pressing against him, placing his hand against Loki’s neck as he tilted his mouth down and claimed Loki’s lips.

Their flesh burned together.

For a shocked instant Loki couldn’t move or breathe as Thor leaned into the touch, grimacing and gasping against the pain, his eyes never leaving Loki’s. Then Loki flung him off, hurling him to the floor, still feeling the sensation of Thor’s hands and lips burning.

“Fool!” Loki gasped, even as he fell back into his Asgardian flesh. He dropped to his knees and bent over his brother where he lay shaking, gasping for breath, eyes tightly shut against the pain. Thor struggled to sit. He pressed a hand to Thor’s blistered mouth, turned Thor’s wounded hand palm up. Thor groaned as he clasped their fingers together.

“Fool,” he whispered as Thor’s eyes fluttered open. Loki spoke Words and pushed power into the burned, blistered flesh; he wove strands of energy over Thor’s wounds. Loki closed his eyes and focused and _sent._

Drained, Loki fell back on his heels. Thor’s eyes were clear of pain, and the wounds on his neck and hands were much improved. “Fool,” he said again, and pulled Thor up to sit beside him. Thor laid one hand over his. Such a fool, to willingly thrust his hand into the fire again. But he allowed the touch.

They sat there in silence for a time and Loki, finding ease in the quiet and warmth, let his mind go elsewhere.

Oh. Interesting. Scrying had become suddenly much easier, no longer requiring tools such as mirrors or water. He could _See._ There, the All-Father, still asleep. And there, Frigga’s tapestry. She had unpicked the weave down to the lowest threads where the pattern had remained pure. She had begun again from there. The new weave was not smooth. Some threads had been pulled loose and were frayed at the ends. Some threads travelled in random paths, unconnected to the pattern. Some were beginning to form new images, new stories to replace the old.

Loki lifted his free hand. His skin shimmered with energy, and as he moved his hand lines of power, of thread, moved with it. Frigga looked up from her tapestry, looked into his eyes. He nodded. She held her hand out to him. He extended his fingertips to hers and felt the warmth of her aura encompass him. Frigga began working again, and for an instant he moved his hands over hers. Frigga let him weave, new threads reaching out into the void. And if his hands made the pattern stray from her intent, she did not object. “Son,” she said, and then she smiled. “Mother,” he said, and let go. She continued working.

He hummed as he looked into the distance where the Bifrost had left its most recent mark, where, invisible, an icy hunk of rock lay. What should he do with it?

Born to be kings.

Well. What _should_ he do with Laufey?

He could,

_Lure Laufey with tempting words into a trap, then kill him as he invaded Asgard._

He could,

_Go to_ _Jötun_ _heim, and slay Laufey while remaining unseen._

He could,

_Challenge Laufey in honorable duel, slay him, and demand his birthright as Laufey’s son. Of course some improvements would have to be made. Perhaps he would make Sif the regent and send the Warriors Three to keep her company._

He could,

_Take the Jötunn throne by trickery, banish Laufey to Muspelheim to die horribly in Surtur’s flames, be a merciful King, return the Casket of Ancient Winters, and bring their world back to whatever glory it had once known._

He could,

_Do as Thor suggested, and negotiate.  As long as the conditions included Laufey's abdication._

A razor smile crossed his face.

Whatever he chose, Laufey would come to regret what he had thrown away. Even if his regrets lasted only seconds before his death.

Loki stood, and Thor followed him. Thor wound his arms around Loki’s in a tight embrace. When Loki did not respond, he stepped back and searched Loki’s face. Then he offered his hand. Loki let it hang there mid-air. Thor, looking resigned, lowered his arm.

“You are a fool to embrace the monster,” Loki said.

“I see no monster. I see my brother.”

“You are a fool to touch me, to trust me.”

“As you have often said,” he gave Loki a brilliant smile. “I often do foolish things.”

Loki barked a laugh.

Thor’s gaze was uncertain, one of many expressions he had never seen on his face before Odin’s banishment. “What now, brother?”

Loki heaved a sigh. “Do not call me that.” Thor looked crestfallen, and he sighed again. It was so pathetically easy to hurt Thor, even when he didn’t intend to.

But Thor straightened and took on a look as if he were facing Odin on his throne. “What now, my King?”

_My King._ Loki froze for one second, delight and pleasure at Thor’s acknowledgement warring with the thousand other thoughts racing through his mind. He grasped one image: the two of them, talking together moments before Thor’s aborted coronation. The last moment of peace they had had together. Peace, and yet he had been filled with envy. Would not Thor feel that way now? “And what of you, my Prince? Do you desire the throne? Would you have it from me?”

“I am unworthy.” Thor’s mouth was set in a grim line.

He pealed with laughter. “Do you imagine that I am **_worthy_**?” And decided, why not give him this gift? “Brother?”

Thor’s expression brightened. “A king needs wisdom. You have always been more clever than I.”

Still laughing, Loki gasped out, “And you – always more **_pure_** than I. Stronger. Braver.”

“Never braver.” Thor lowered his head. “I always thought I would be King and you my wise Counsel. Now I see you are my King, for you have the words I do not, and I your sword to protect all the realms.”

For a mere second his silver tongue deserted him. “And when the All-Father awakes?”

“He will find things much changed.” Thor placed his hands on Loki’s shoulders. It was easy enough to move into an embrace, to allow his lips to brush gently over fresh new skin. But the memory of the pain he had caused seized him, and he pulled back and looked away.

Thor pressed one hand to Loki’s neck and tilted Loki’s head back, making him look at him. “I have always trusted you.”

Loki felt himself smile a genuine smile. It felt odd. He sought inside himself, dredging for the anger and rage and sorrow and pain, and it was all still there, but somehow distanced, as if years had gone by, not moments. And when Thor sought his mouth in a kiss he allowed it, then matched it with sudden hunger, grasping him close before pulling back, too many thoughts spilling through his mind for him to stay in this one moment.

_What next?_

Loki strode out of the observatory and along the Bifrost. He hummed as he looked all around him, knowing that above, behind, below, stretched Yggdrasil’s branches. He knew many pathways. He would learn more.

He heard Thor increase his pace, until Thor was right behind him. And then by his side.

“What are you thinking?” Thor asked and he turned his gaze back from the void, to where starlight was dancing in Thor’s electric blue eyes.

“Which threads I wish to weave.”

“Will you tell me what they are?”

“Perhaps,” he breathed. Thor was still studying his face, and suddenly he had an image of that long-ago night, and how firelight had looked in Thor’s hair and how the wavering light had played across Thor’s skin, and what it been like during that one moment in time when the stars aligned and everything was right.

He looked down at his Æsir-pale hand.

_Your skin is not your own. Make claim to it, and all that you are._

Embrace the lie? Well – wasn’t he good at lying?

Loki reached for Thor’s hand. Thor interlaced his fingers with Loki’s and held tightly to him. And the smile on Thor’s face would shame the moon and the stars.

Loki looked to where their fingers joined together. _Mine._ A smile spread across his face. Thor tightened his grip. He did the same.

He said nothing as they walked beside each other back to Asgard. But he had many, many thoughts. He would send Laufey an ultimatum. Stand down. Or be destroyed. What to do next? Perhaps he didn’t want the throne after all. But, for now, it was his, and there were so many possibilities. And when Odin awoke, whether it was this day or a century from now, he would find two sons awaiting him, one already king, one further along the path.

And after Odin awoke, where next would the paths between the worlds lead him? Would lead both of them? He had much to learn, and he and Thor had much to do together. The pattern was not apparent, but it was already being woven. Midgard would be part of it. And Coyote, his new kin-in-seiðr…. Ah, he was looking forward to the Workings they might do; they and others like them; the creativity of chaos against the destructiveness of entropy.

He glanced up at Thor, who was still looking at him intently, clearly trying to work out how they now stood with each other. And if his… yes, his _brother’s_ face looked older than it had but a few days prior, it was an age well attained.

_He is constant. Remember that, even if you forget all else._

Ah. What better way to reassure themselves than follow old habits?

He turned and whispered something filthy in Thor’s ear. Thor grinned. And Loki magicked himself from the Bifrost directly into his bed, sealed the draperies, cast a witchlight, and reclined there naked. Thor would be there soon to once again work out the entrance through the bed’s draperies. Perhaps it was time to try something new. Should the King command? Or be commanded?

He smiled a pleased smile into the shadows and waited.


End file.
